Page 162 of Kathryn

Amelia cleared her throat. “There is something else, too.”

“What?” he barked.

Amelia went to her writing desk and took out two pieces of lavender paper that Gerrit recognized all too well.

“I received this from your mother.”

“She writes to you?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Does every female in my life secretly communicate with each other?”

Amelia chose to ignore his second question, which was not entirely rhetorical. “The dowager wrote only twice.” She handed the letters to him.

“I do not want them.”

“You need to read them. Especially the newer one.” She held his gaze.

He scowled and rudely snatched them away. “Faugh,” he coughed when the overwhelming floral scent assaulted his nostrils. “It even smells like her.”

“Gerrit!”

His head whipped up at the unprecedented sound of Amelia’s raised voice. “What?”

“She is your mother. She gave life to you. And you owe her respect. And love. And—and more than you—” To his utter horror, Amelia choked on a sob. “Oh, just read them. I will come back.” She all but ran from the room and Gerrit stared, shocked. In all the years he’d known Amelia she had never lost her composure. Not even at his father’s funeral.

Gerrit turned slowly to the letters. Is this what upset her so? He stared at them as if they were venomous.

Something told him their contents would sting in ways he could not imagine.

He looked from letter to letter and sighed.

And then he unfolded the older more faded missive and commenced to read.

***

Two hours later Gerrit tracked Kathryn down in one of the two succession houses. Not surprisingly, it was the one that held mostly ornamental plants.

He paused in the entrance and regarded her for a moment, savoring the breathtaking beauty of his wife among thousands of blooms.

Gerrit wished he could simply approach her and kiss her rather than share the shocking news he had just learned. But there was no sense in putting off the inevitable. After all, hadn’t he been the one to say no secrets? Now he had one so mortifying that—

“Dulverton! Have you been there long?” she asked, nudging back an escaped red spiral with the back of one gloved hand and leaving a smudge on her cheek.

“What are you doing?” Only after he’d asked did he realize that he’d ignored her question—a habit he was determined to break, at least with her. He took out his watch. “I have been here less than a minute,” he said, replacing it in his pocket.

For some reason she was grinning. Gerrit raised his eyebrows; was something amusing?

But she merely smirked and gestured to the freshly churned dirt. “My sister Phoebe sent me some cuttings. I am no gardener, but I wanted to grow these myself, so I asked Mr. Norland and he gave me detailed instructions.”

“I am pleased he was helpful.” His ancient head gardener was as fiendishly obsessive about plants as Gerrit was about fossils.

“Did you need something?” she asked.

“I can wait until you are finished.”

“I’m actually finished. I was just standing here… thinking.”

“About?”

She laughed. “My, my, how times have changed.”